


second star to the right and straight on till morning

by shakingshoulders



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Depression, Loss, Pete and Patrick (Fall Out Boy), Peterick, Pre-Hiatus (Fall Out Boy), Van Days, old fic, patrick stump - Freeform, pete wentz - Freeform, take this to your grave, this is sad i'm sorry, van crash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 20:20:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6298924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakingshoulders/pseuds/shakingshoulders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick Stump once admitted if he had been in the seat in front of him during FOB's 2004 car crash, he could've died. AU where he was.<br/>I wrote this forever ago on wattpad so I'm just going to leave it as it is, sorry if there are any errors.<br/>Starts with a real Livejournal entry, ends with a penned one. This is sort of written as Pete's letter to Patrick?? idk</p>
            </blockquote>





	second star to the right and straight on till morning

  
January 18th, 2004, 5:59 am  
my head was spinning. the car was spinning.  
i could only think of you.  
~  
It's not like I ever stopped thinking about you, really. You were so careful, you hated me for being reckless. You hated me for the pills and the parties and the putting my life in the line for shits and giggles.  
"Pete," you'd said. "Buckle your seatbelt, so I don't have to say I told you so when you die in some horrific car crash!"  
I'd laughed. I'd brushed it off. You scowled and turned your head to look outside the window, out at the snow and the ice and the road towards filming our first high quality video. The label had paid for our camera and everything.  
The driver was quiet, eyes fixed on the window shield. Joe was just behind you, taking up the whole row of seats all for his lazy ass self. Like me, he wasn't buckled in, just leaning against the cool door of the van. Next to me was Andy, asleep, slouching against a shitty pillow he probably stolen from a motel, snoring loudly. His glasses were strewn off to the side carelessly.  
Your frames were polished and put away, your head was in your hands. You were wearing a hat and a vest, trying to make up for the complete shit heater in our van. You and I were the only ones up, besides the driver, after awhile. "'Trick," I whispered. You turned your head.  
"What?" You shot a glance towards the back seat.  
"It's s' cold. How 'bout we pull over and you switch seats with Andy?" I smirked. You scoffed.  
"Forget it, Pete," you said emotionlessly.  
And so I did. You fixed your gaze back out the window, and I pulled out my sidekick to rid myself of the boredom I was facing. I wrote a little online, published a journal entry, before I too myself found myself on the brink of sleep. Apparently our driver was in the same boat.  
~  
We collided into the adjacent forest, going 70 miles an hour, and I was apparently the only one awake. Time slowed, I screamed. My head was spinning at the rate of our van, and all I could think about was you. You'd have to be okay, right? Buckled tightly into your seat, leaning against the window.  
The window.  
Your side hit the trees first. I saw the airbag go up in the front, I felt glass against my skin, and then it was dark.  
When I woke up I heard voices. Our driver and Andy had dragged me and Joe from the van, a nurse explained. I passed out, but I didn't even have a concussion. A miracle they had said.  
Joe hadn't been so lucky. Andy, the driver, and I were cut up a bit, but we were fine. He had a broken leg, and a bad concussion. He needed stitches in his head in three different places.  
But what about you?  
"Pete," Andy had started.

I see the van turn.

"The van hit pretty hard on the passenger side, that's why you blacked out and I didn't. You got the hit head on."

I see you jerk awake.

"Joe was in front of us, but he was laying towards the driver side, he was lucky."

I see the fear in your baby blues, I see it radiate over your porcelain face.

"Pete, oh god I'm so sorry."

Everything was dark again. Everything was quiet, then everything was loud, much, much too loud.  
I found my feet running, trying to keep pace with my mind, bursting through the hospital doors and collapsing in the snow, knees scraped, hands weak, eyes watering and nose running. It couldn't have been real. "Patrick, Patrick, Patrick," I whispered your name over and over again, hugging my own chest and closing my eyes so tightly that I tricked myself to believe if I did it long enough you'd come fucking back.  
You died on the 18th of January, 2004, your head against the window. They said you were buckled in tightly, and that you were bound to the seat, they said your skull was crushed and your seatbelt strangled you.  
~  
Can you hear me, Patrick? It used to feel like you were still so close, but I can't reach you anymore. I think this all hurt Kevin the worse. He still begs the sky to bring you back home, and frankly, we all do. Some nights it gets so bad, I dial your number. I'm not sure what I expect, other than your voice at the other end, "hey! This is Patrick. I can't get to the phone right now, so go ahead and leave a message!"  
I always do. You never call back.  
I went to your memorial back in Chicago. Everyone's asking me if I'm okay, everyone's telling me I'll pull through. All I even get from these shitty people anymore is "Pete, you can talk to me."  
I know I can. I know the world can be my bitch if I want it to be, I know I can say the word and have hundreds of kids lined up to hear my sob story, but I can't, you know? I can talk to them, but I can't talk to them like I talked to you, Patrick. I can't carry myself the way I did when you were here. I can't bring myself to write anything but tragedy, but that's what I always did anyway, isn't it? I am a hopeless dreamer, and you were the dream.  
I long for the feeling of your lips brushed against mine. I long for the warmth of your peachy skin, for the blue of your eyes and your stupid hats and the way you'd take my hoodies because we never really could afford a hotel with a good thermostat. I long for you as a whole.  
My breathing is labored, my heart is heavy. My mind is lost, and you are the sign I need to find my way home, but you're gone now, and I believe I will never find my way.  
You're completely gone now, but you still return in my dreams. Your ghost forever treads on my heavy soul, on the shell that used to be inhabited, but has long since been abandoned, as I resorted to confining myself in the terror of my own mind.  
You were nineteen.  
~  
One night while listening to our records, I pull out my neglected sidekick once again, and open up my journal page, flooding with Patrick messages and condolences, filled to the brim with the kids you meant the world to. I type one last entry, for awhile at least. Honorable Mention is playing. I feel tears fresh in my eyes.

June 2nd, 2004, 3:24 am  
my heart is a hand grenade and you keep pulling the pin.  
come home trick. we cant stand you being gone.  
tonight is all about we miss you...  
i miss you.

\- p


End file.
